American Sherlocks by Nick Rennison (reading like a writer .TXT) 📕

of it,’ said Mrs Smitz. ‘I guess everybody knows of it – I told the police to try to find Henry, so it is no secret. And I want you to come up as soon as you get dressed, and paper my bedroom.’

Mr Gubb looked at the young woman as if he thought she had gone insane under the burden of her woe.

‘And then I want you to find Henry,’ she said, ‘because I’ve heard you can do so well in the detecting line.’

Mr Gubb suddenly realized that the poor creature did not yet know the full extent of her loss. He gazed down upon her with pity in his bird-like eyes.

‘I know you’ll think it strange,’ the young woman went on, ‘that I should ask you to paper a bedroom first, when my husband is lost; but if he is gone it is because I was a mean, stubborn thing. We never quarrelled in our lives, Mr Gubb, until I picked out the wall-paper for our bedroom, and Henry said parrots and birds-of-paradise and tropical flowers that were as big as umbrellas would look awful on our bedroom wall. So I said he hadn’t anything but Low Dutch taste, and he got mad. “All right, have it your own way,” he said, and I went and had Mr Skaggs put the paper on the wall, and the next day Henry didn’t come home at all.

‘If I’d thought Henry would take it that way, I’d rather had the wall bare, Mr Gubb. I’ve cried and cried, and last night I made up my mind it was all my fault and that when Henry came home he’d find a decent paper on the wall. I don’t mind telling you, Mr Gubb, that when the paper was on the wall it looked worse than it looked in the roll. It looked crazy.’

‘Yes’m,’ said Mr Gubb, ‘it often does. But, however, there’s something you’d ought to know right away about Henry.’

The young woman stared wide-eyed at Mr Gubb for a moment; she turned as white as her shirtwaist.

‘Henry is dead!’ she cried, and collapsed into Mr Gubb’s long, thin arms.

Mr Gubb, the inert form of the young woman in his arms, glanced around with a startled gaze. He stood miserably, not knowing what to do, when suddenly he saw Policeman O’Toole coming toward him down the hall. Policeman O’Toole was leading by the arm a man whose wrists bore clanking handcuffs.

‘What’s this now?’ asked the policeman none too gently, as he saw the bathrobed Mr Gubb holding the fainting woman in his arms.

‘I am exceedingly glad you have come,’ said Mr Gubb. ‘The only meaning into it, is that this is Mrs H Smitz, widow-lady, fainted onto me against my will and wishes.’

‘I was only askin’,’ said Policeman O’Toole politely enough.

‘You shouldn’t ask such things until you’re asked to ask,’ said Mr Gubb.

After looking into Mr Gubb’s room to see that there was no easy means of escape, O’Toole pushed his prisoner into the room and took the limp form of Mrs Smitz from Mr Gubb, who entered the room and closed the door.

‘I may as well say what I want to say right now,’ said the handcuffed man as soon as he was alone with Mr Gubb. ‘I’ve heard of Detective Gubb, off and on, many a time, and as soon as I got into this trouble I said, “Gubb’s the man that can get me out if any one can.” My name is Herman Wiggins.’

‘Glad to meet you,’ said Mr Gubb, slipping his long legs into his trousers.

‘And I give you my word for what it is worth,’ continued Mr Wiggins, ‘that I’m as innocent of this crime as the babe unborn.’

‘What crime?’ asked Mr Gubb.

‘Why, killing Hen Smitz – what crime did you think?’ said Mr Wiggins. ‘Do I look like a man that would go and murder a man just because –’

He hesitated and Mr Gubb, who was slipping his suspenders over his bony shoulders, looked at Mr Wiggins with keen eyes.

‘Well, just because him and me had words in fun,’ said Mr Wiggins, ‘I leave it to you, can’t a man say words in fun once in a while?’

‘Certainly sure,’ said Mr Gubb.

‘I guess so,’ said Mr Wiggins. ‘Anybody’d know a man don’t mean all he says. When I went and told Hen Smitz I’d murder him as sure as green apples grow on a tree, I was just fooling. But this fool policeman –’

‘Mr O’Toole?’

‘Yes. They gave him this Hen Smitz case to look into, and the first thing he did was to arrest me for murder. Nervy, I call it.’

Policeman O’Toole opened the door a crack and peeked in. Seeing Mr Gubb well along in his dressing operations, he opened the door wider and assisted Mrs Smitz to a chair. She was still limp, but she was a brave little woman and was trying to control her sobs.

‘Through?’ O’Toole asked Wiggins. ‘If you are, come along back to jail.’

‘Now, don’t talk to me in that tone of voice,’ said Mr Wiggins angrily. ‘No, I’m not through. You don’t know how to treat a gentleman like a gentleman, and never did.’

He turned to Mr Gubb.

‘The long and short of it is this: I’m arrested for the murder of Hen Smitz, and I didn’t murder him and I want you to take my case and get me out of jail.’

‘Ah, stuff!’ exclaimed O’Toole. ‘You murdered him and you know you did. What’s the use talkin’?’

Mrs Smitz leaned forward in her chair.

‘Murdered Henry?’ she cried. ‘He never murdered Henry. I murdered him.’

‘Now, ma’am,’ said O’Toole politely, ‘I hate to contradict a lady, but you never murdered him at all. This man here murdered him, and I’ve got the proof on him.’

‘I murdered him!’ cried Mrs Smitz again. ‘I drove him out of his right mind and made him kill himself.’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ declared O’Toole. ‘This man Wiggins murdered him.’

‘I did not!’ exclaimed Mr Wiggins indignantly. ‘Some other man